Page 21 of Faking it with my Off Limits Neighbor

And then, suddenly, I have a brilliant idea. Grabbing the keys, I head out to the truck. I need to go to town and pick up some things.

* * *

I wake the following morning a little earlier than usual. I don’t know if Charlie has any clients today, and I want to get this thing done before she needs to leave. The simple fact is that if I don’t, she can’t go anywhere at any rate.

The good thing about Cherryville is that it’s a relatively safe town. So safe, in fact, that most people don’t lock their cars at night. As I walk up Charlie’s driveway, I’m hoping that’s the case with her; otherwise, this surprise I have planned will fall flat on its face.

To my delight, the car is, indeed, unlocked. I pop the hood, move to the front of the car, and drop the bag of tools I picked up yesterday on the ground beside me. I look down at the intricate wiring and pipes of the immaculately clean engine with a slight sense of bewilderment.

“Right.”

I’ll be honest: it’s been a long time since I’ve messed around with cars, and I’m now a little worried that I might have let my arrogance run away with me. The latest cars have everything but a microwave oven under the hood, and for a second, I feel a rush of overwhelm.

“Come on, man. You can do this.”

The thing is, all gasoline cars run on the same basic principles, which means that while modern technology has advanced, the same problems are—well, the same as they always were.

Taking a deep breath, I grab the tools I need and get to work. I also say a silent prayer to anyone who might happen to be listening that I don’t wreck some important component of the car and make the situation ten times worse.

* * *

“What are you doing?” Charlie’s voice comes from my left about an hour later.

When I push myself up to face her, she’s looking at me with wide eyes and her mouth open in confusion.

“Oh, just in time,” I say with a grin. “Have you got the keys?”

For a second, Charlie doesn’t react. She’s still looking a little bewildered, mixed with a large dose of shock. Clearly, she has no clients today, because she’s standing beside me in a thin-strapped tank top and baggy jeans. It takes all my effort not to linger on the slight tan of her skin and the crevices of her collar bones.

“The keys?” she says eventually.

“Yes. You know. Those things you put into the ignition to start the car. They’re usually attached to a ring of some sort,” I reply dryly.

“Right. Right,” she says, still reeling from the sight of me.

I suppose I do look a bit of a mess. My hands are covered in the usual muck you find around any engine, and I’m pretty sure I wiped my face with a dirty hand earlier; with my tribal stripes, I probably look like one of those blue people from Avatar.

Charlie disappears into the house and returns a moment later with the car keys.

“Start her up,” I say, wiping my hands on a cloth I was wise enough to bring.

She slips into the driver’s seat, and the first time the key turns in the ignition, the car roars to life and starts.

Yes!

I will admit. I am pretty proud of myself. Without the keys, I didn’t know if it was the spark plugs, the air filter, the high-tension leads, or the distribution cap, so I checked them all. As it happens, there was some condensation in the distribution cap, and I’m pretty sure that was the problem.

“Oh, my gosh!” Charlie says, now standing by my side again. “What did you do?”

“Well, first I took the entire engine apart, and then I rebuilt her from scratch,” I say with as straight a face as possible. “I’ve been out here since four this morning.”

“You have not!” she gasped.

I chuckle and shake my head. “No. I haven’t. It was a simple fix.”

Her eyes fall to the tool bag by my feet. “You got those from your dad?” she asks.

I hesitate for the slightest of seconds. “Yes,” I say.

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